


The Lost City

by Araine, blackglass



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Alternate Universe - The Mummy Fusion, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-10-07 07:02:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10354767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Araine/pseuds/Araine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackglass/pseuds/blackglass
Summary: The stories say that there exists a city hidden in the heart of the mountains: Whitestone, once known as The Jewel in the North, the city of Pelor. They say that it is home to riches innumerable--both material and arcane--as well as a power so immense, so secret, that none dare speak of it.The stories also say that it is a cursed land, wreathed in perpetual fog and darkness. They say nothing grows there and strange and terrible creatures roam its ruins.Many have gone to seek their fortune there. Most have failed to find it. A few have never returned.Percival de Rolo--librarian/scholar by day, tinkerer by night--knows magic isn’t real and stories are just stories, but his research has convinced him that the city itself does exist. Then one night his sister brings him a puzzle box containing a map and before he knows it, he’s off to find the lost city led by two half-elves of dubious character and accompanied by his sister, a gnome medic, a goliath mercenary, and an eccentric gnome looking for a story to tell. What starts off as an academic pursuit goes off the rails in short order and Percy finds that there may be some truth after all to the stories about the City of the Undead...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Blindvogel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Blindvogel/pseuds/Blindvogel) and [seimaisin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/seimaisin/pseuds/seimaisin) for the beta!

 

**Whitestone, 1200 Years Ago**

The night was so cold that Delilah Briarwood’s fingers felt stiff and her breath mingled with the ever-present mist. She hauled a wooden box behind her, up the stairs of the crypt, driven by some inner strength even she didn’t know she had. She did not care about her sluggishly bleeding wounds or the ache in her arms, only about getting the coffin to the crypt.

Delilah pushed the great wooden doors open with her shoulder. The effort drew a cry of pain from her lips and more blood gushed sluggishly from where that boy had shot her. The last of the de Rolos and he’d come with his paltry group of friends to tear them from their throne.

The wooden doors swung shut with a loud and echoing _bang!_ Delilah glanced back and sealed the doorway with her magic. It would not hold forever, this she knew too well, but perhaps--

Perhaps it would hold long enough.

The center of the crypt was Delilah’s destination, with the box she dragged behind her. Each step was more agony, but she was driven by fury and grief.

_Sylas._

Whitestone should have been the place of their triumph. They had been so careful, her and her Sylas, seeing to every last detail in preparation for the ritual only to have it ruined at the eleventh hour by the de Rolo boy and his friends. Instead of freedom from her dark master, Delilah was left with only this empty and ragged ache in her chest. Sylas, her Sylas, her strong and perfect husband, perished in front of her eyes and left this pain behind.

Delilah was far more crafty and had access to more ancient magics than the de Rolo boy could even imagine, and she meant to use all of them tonight. She used her own blood to write the sigils. Her battle wounds made for plentiful ink.

Panting and dizzy-headed, Delilah examined her work. It would do.

She pulled her spellbook from inside her robes. The cover had soaked in her blood, acquiring a dark and misshapen stain, but the pages inside remained pristine. Delilah thumbed through pages to the spell she needed, a spell she had hoped desperately never to have to use.

She drew a deep and bracing breath, and then began to speak the spell.

Or rather, the spell seemed to speak her. The words ripped from Delilah’s lips like burning coals, blistering her lips with their heat. She nearly quailed in the face of the power she now wielded, nearly stopped reading for fear of it. Only thoughts of Sylas kept the words pouring from her mouth. The crypt rumbled and shook as the spell started to take hold.

Out of the freezing air mist curled together and settled in the coffin. It first became a formless mass of opaque vapor, obscuring the velvet lining the inside of the coffin. Then it took shape, human legs and a head and arms. Colors formed out of the mist, Sylas’s dark hair and unnaturally pale skin and clothes in the dark and rich colors he preferred, and Delilah was staring once more at her beloved’s face.

She reached out. Her fingers touched the mist, which already under her touch was beginning to solidify. Delilah smiled and caressed the face of her beloved, her heart bursting again with a joy she’d thought lost from the world with Sylas’s passing.

She looked back in her spellbook to complete the spell.

The temple shook again. Not from the power of the spell but from someone pounding at the doors. Delilah read more urgently from her book, calling the power of Vecna down on the both of them.

The door boomed again. This time a rain of wood splinters caught Delilah across the face as the door shattered. She flinched, and with her loss of concentration the spell died. Sylas faded into mist which scattered into the night air.

“No!” Delilah gasped. She whirled.

“Delilah!” the de Rolo boy roared from the crypt doors, staring through the magical barrier that still separated them. Around him were his friends, each looking equally fearsome. She stared them down, full of an icy fury, and flipped the pages of her spellbook to another spell she had hoped never to use.

This one required no sigil or preparation, just her words and her life. If it meant a chance to see her Sylas once again--

Well.

Delilah began to speak.

Her spell on the door faltered and flickered out but still Delilah spoke. An arrow from the bow of the dark-haired ranger caught her in her shoulder, but still she spoke. The crypt doors splintered fully open at last, but Delilah did not stop reading.

The de Rolo boy lowered his long-barreled gun at her and with an icy look in his blue eyes aimed and fired. Delilah’s arm ripped from her body with a spray of gore and spiraled across the floor. Her spellbook dropped from her hands onto the stone floor of the crypt.

It was too late.

Delilah Briarwood brought her curse down upon herself and upon Sylas and upon all of Whitestone, one last curse that would taint the land for generations, until the day came when she might rise even more powerful to walk this earth again.

 _Goodbye, my love,_ Delilah thought as she faded. _We shall see each other again._

\--

**Emon, 1926, at _The Laughing Lamia_**

“A hellion,” was what Cassandra de Rolo’s mother had called her, the day before she had packed up Cassandra’s things and bought her a train ticket to Emon. This was not a title entirely undeserved. Cassandra had earlier broken into her father’s study and hidden in a wardrobe for the duration of his meeting with his business associates. Her protestations that she’d been studying the family business had all been for naught. Certainly not after she had lost her footing and tumbled out of the closet into the midst of Frederick de Rolo’s business associates.

Cassandra’s parents argued not infrequently over just what to do with her. She was at that tender age, Johanna de Rolo said, between boarding school and marriage when young women try exerting their independence. She was, Frederick de Rolo said, a nuisance and something needed to be done about her.

Cassandra heard all of this from the other side of her father’s study door, while both Oliver and Whitney looked on in twin amusement. Cassandra thought that this whole turn of events was excessively unfair. Oliver and Whitney had gotten into much worse trouble in their time, and neither of them had ever been sent away.

Fortunately for her parents, Percy was in Emon doing-- well, whatever it was that Percy did. Spending all his time with books and dusty artifacts and never doing anything remotely interesting. Emon, Johanna de Rolo said, was a much better place for a free-spirited girl like Cassandra to spread her wings.

Fortunately for Cassandra, Percy was a very inattentive guardian and whenever she wished she was easily able to slip away and get into whatever sort of trouble she might like.

The bar that Cassandra had found was the sort of rowdy and smoke-filled place that disreputable folks from all walks of life gathered. Even in her plainest smock Cassandra stood out among the gamblers testing their luck at the Gambit of Ord. She stood out even more because she was winning.

With a small but satisfied smile, Cassandra laid out her cards on the table. The increasingly exasperated dealer handed over Cassandra’s winnings, which she raked into her large pile.

“Thank you,” Cassandra said in her most proper voice. She smiled winsomely at the dealer and scooped her winnings into her handbag. “I think that is quite enough for me today.”

The dealer only eyed Cassandra suspiciously as she ambled towards the exit of the gambling den. Somehow it was much harder to find the exit than it had been to find the tables, and she had to squint through the ambient smoke at the posted signage.

A hand darted out from the crowd and grabbed Cassandra by the upper arm. She whirled and found herself in the vice grip of a tall blond man wearing a very visible firearm on the holster at his hip, glowering down at her.

Cassandra tried to wrench away, only for the stranger’s grip to tighten painfully around her arm. Another stranger, a half-orc with an intimidating scowl, flanked Cassandra from the other side.

Maybe next time, Cassandra thought to herself, don’t be quite so obvious about how much you’ve won.

She opened her mouth to speak when the blond stranger interrupted her. “We know you’re a cheat,” he growled into her face. His breath, like the rest of the bar, smelled very strongly of smoke. Cassandra made a face and tried to pull away again. “So just give us all your winnings, girlie, and we won’t have to rough you up.”

“I don’t think you’re with the casino,” Cassandra said.

The half-orc chuckled. “Catches on quick, this one,” he said. “Since you’re so smart, you should know it’s best to just hand over the money to us without a fuss.”

“How about you step off instead?” said a new man who stepped nearly between Cassandra and the blond.

Cassandra - about to go for the knife hidden in her skirt - instead found a lanky half-elf between her and the two strangers trying to shake her down. He was dressed like a disreputable sort himself, in a ragged dark cloak and with long dark hair tied back, holding his own knife expertly.

“Why don’t you stay out of things that don’t concern you?” the blond man growled.

“When you’re trying to shake down a little girl? I don’t think so.”

Cassandra scowled. Little girl, indeed. “Thanks very much for your assistance,” she said, “but I think I can handle myself from here.”

The half-elf turned to Cassandra with a look of pure confusion, an opportunity which the half-orc took to punch him square in the jaw. He reeled and then struck back lightning fast with the pommel of his knife. Cassandra sat back on her heels and watched the short but violent tussle, impressed by the half-elf dodging the haymakers the toughs threw at him and paying them back in short quick strikes.

Enough punishment taken, the two toughs backed off with mumbled apologies. Cassandra’s unasked savior scowled at their retreating backs until they disappeared into the crowd, much the worse for wear. Then, he turned back to Cassandra.

“Are you alright?”

Cassandra, a bit wrong-footed, dusted herself off. “Just fine, thank you,” she said, falling back on her boarding school manners.

The half-elf eyed Cassandra - in her frock and carefully braided hair - skeptically. “Next time maybe stay out of the casinos,” he said.

“I don’t think that’s any of your business,” Cassandra said.

His skepticism remained, reminding Cassandra annoyingly of her parents, but whatever lecture he might have devised about her age or her sex was forestalled by another half-elf sidling up to him. She was beautiful, voluptuous and fully made-up in the lush way Cassandra’s mother might have sniffed at, and there was no doubt in Cassandra’s mind just from a singular glance that the two were siblings.

“Vax,” she said, just low enough that Cassandra barely heard. “We should go. It looks like they’re murmuring about throwing us out.”

The half-elf-- Vax-- threw one last half-hearted look at Cassandra before following his sister outside. Cassandra was left standing alone in the middle of the crowd, still reeling from the encounter.

A glimmer at Cassandra’s feet caught her eye. She leaned down and picked the thing up, a tiny metal puzzle box covered in writing that Cassandra could not decipher but which looked uncannily similar to the writing in Percy’s books.

 _Perhaps he’d like a present,_ Cassandra thought. A present might just distract her older brother from just where she’d been all evening. She scanned the people milling about at their gambling for the departed half-elves and, seeing neither of them, pocketed the box.

_Well, finders keepers, I suppose._

Cassandra left the casino and wandered off home.

\--

**Percy’s workshop, 2 hours later**

Percy gingerly secured the last plate over the delicate circuitry he’d spent the last few weeks painstakingly wiring and stepped back to survey his handiwork with a sense of great satisfaction. Before him, resting on rubber-lined stands, lay his newest creation: a seven-foot long Javelin of Lightning.

Or rather the prototype of his best attempt to recreate that mythical item. In all of Percy’s research into said item he had not found one surviving drawing of what it looked like, which meant he had to work off of written accounts which were, of course, written in the most fantastical of terms. A javelin that could magically transform into a lightning bolt, _indeed_ , Percy thought disdainfully. More likely than not, it had functioned as some sort of crude lightning rod, but well, that was ancient historians for you--if they didn’t understand how something worked, the natural explanation was “magic.”

Percy knew better though and when he’d come across a description of the javelin in his translation work, his mind had instantly begun reconstructing how he could make a weapon that would function as described. He was only a hobbyist tinkerer, it was true, and far better skilled with metalwork and mechanical engineering than he was with electrical engineering, but given his recent success with harnessing the power of electricity in constructing Diplomacy, he reasoned it couldn’t be _that_ much harder to apply what he’d learned to this venture.

And now: the moment of truth. Percy slipped on rubber gloves and carefully attached the wires he’d jury-rigged off the library’s power source to the leads at the butt end of the javelin. He normally charged Diplomacy with a hand-cranked generator, but for something of this size he needed a more powerful source. It was almost certainly illegal what he’d done, but honestly, he only needed a _little_ juice, a fraction of the supply the library required to run; surely no one would notice if he just… _borrowed_ a bit.

There was a barely perceptible hum as power was fed into the javelin. Shortly after, arcing sparks of light began to dance along the shaft, intermittently at first, then with increasing frequency until there was a continuous wave of crackling energy. And because no one was around to witness the indignity of his reaction, Percy felt free to throw his head back and unleash a truly maniacal laugh. _God_ , he was clever, he thought, flushed and giddy with elation.

So absorbed in self-congratulation was he, that he didn’t notice the rising whine of building energy that portended certain disaster until it was too late.

_**KRA-KOOM!** _

With a blinding flash of light and a thunderous crack of noise, the energy surrounding the javelin exploded, the concussive force of it throwing Percy off his feet and backwards into the shelves behind him. _Well, shit_ , was his last coherent thought, before unconsciousness took him.

He came to some indeterminate amount of time later to a hand gently slapping him awake and a familiar concerned, but melodious voice, saying, “--cival? Can you hear me? That’s right, open your eyes, dear boy. Come on now, talk to me.” The words sounded muffled, as if he was underwater.

“... _owww_ ,” Percy groaned in response. God, everything hurt. His head and ears were ringing and there was an odd trickling sensation down the side of his face. He peeled his eyes open with great effort and had to shut them again almost immediately as the world spun around him, causing an overwhelming sense of vertigo.

He heard a deep sigh and felt that ring-bedecked hand patting at his cheek again. “None of that now, my young friend. Let me see those stunning blue eyes of yours, that’s it.” The voice was clearer now that the ringing in his ears was subsiding, the tone of it coaxing, and Percy groaned again as he struggled to obey. All he could see at first was a blurry dark brown oval smudge that swam around his field of vision until it eventually resolved itself into the image of his employer’s concerned and dimly lit visage. The second thing he noticed was that the right lens of his glasses was cracked.

“Am I dead?” Percy croaked.

Gilmore huffed, the relief and exasperation clear on his face. “Despite your best efforts, no, though I imagine you wish you were given the pain you must be in.” He leaned down and helped Percy sit up with a small grunt of effort. Percy hissed as every cell in his body protested the movement. Gilmore tutted at him, but not without sympathy

“How long was I out?” Percy asked through gritted teeth as Gilmore took a hold of his chin, turning his face this way and that, scrutinizing the extent of his injuries.

“Not more than ten minutes,” Gilmore replied, frowning. “It took me about that long to find a gas lamp and make my way out here. Hold still,” he ordered, digging into a white box on the floor and pulling out some gauze. It was the first aid kit, Percy realized. At Percy’s look of surprise, Gilmore rolled his eyes. “I heard an explosion and then the entire library went dark. It wasn’t too hard to figure out what must have happened.”

“Ah, that--yes, that makes sense,” said Percy, meekly submitting to Gilmore’s ministrations.

“And just _what_ \--” said Gilmore, fixing Percy with a steely look, “--in the name of Exandria were you doing, Percival?”

Any explanation Percy might have made was forestalled by the sound of a female voice drifting in from outside the workshop. “ _Bloody hell_!” There was the sound of rushing footsteps and Cassandra appeared in the doorway, looking harried. “Percy? Are you alive?!”

Percy groaned. “Oh god.” Having his little sister witness the indignity of his situation was the last thing he needed tonight.

At the sound of his voice, Cassandra seemed to relax. “Oh, you’re fine,” she said dismissively. She stepped gingerly into the shed, absently greeting Gilmore, and picked her way over the debris on the floor, taking in the damage with a low whistle. She tsked and shook her head at Percy. “Well, I’m certain this explains why the lights were out for blocks. Honestly, brother, you cause so much trouble. Whatever were you doing?!”

“ _Blocks_?” Gilmore and Percy asked at the same time, the former sounding shocked and the latter faintly sheepish.

“Oh, yes,” said Cassandra blithely. “Fortunately the moon tonight is quite bright, otherwise the walk over here would have been much more difficult with the streetlights out.”

“What were you even thinking walking around the city at this time of night?” Percy asked, frowning. “Emon isn’t _that_ safe, especially for a young woman alone.”

Cassandra looked deeply unimpressed at this display of brotherly protectiveness. “Looking for you, obviously. You weren’t at home and I figured you needed someone to drag you out of your workshop again. But don’t change the subject, Percy--what exactly were you doing that was disastrous enough to cause a city blackout?”

“My question exactly,” Gilmore said dryly. “While your brother explains himself, I’ll get a little more light in here; I want to make sure there aren’t any injuries I’m missing that need tending to.” Gilmore strode over to the workbench next to the shelves Percy had crashed into, locating two miraculously undamaged Bunsen burners and lighting them, bathing the immediate area in a soft glow.

Cassandra crossed her arms and looked expectantly at Percy. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Well, you see, it started with a book--”

Cassandra and Gilmore let out a groan at the same time. “Gods, Percy, it always starts with a book with you, doesn’t it?” said Cassandra, exasperated.

Percy thought this was incredibly unfair. “It’s my job!” he said defensively. “Working with books is quite literally what you pay me for.” He directed this at Gilmore, shooting him a betrayed glare.

“Quite true,” Gilmore conceded soothingly, as he knelt by Percy again, pulling out more gauze and a small bottle from the first aid kit. “Continue, my dear boy.”

Percy sniffed, slightly mollified. “Well, so I found something in an old text about an ancient, supposedly magical weapon called a Javelin of Lightning. Of course,” he scoffed, “there’s no such thing as magic, and seeing how I’d been so successful with making Diplomacy, I thought-- _ouch_!” He broke off with a hiss as Gilmore dabbed at the cut on his temple with what was apparently hydrogen peroxide. Gilmore made an apologetic noise, and Percy continued, “I figured I could prove that one could make something similar with no magic involved at all. And it worked! Or well,” he looked sheepish again, “it _was_ working. I may have underestimated how much power I was feeding into it, because well…” He looked around the workshop meaningfully, the results of his tinkering self-explanatory. Oh dear, that was a hole in the ceiling, wasn’t it...?

Gilmore sighed as he smoothed a plaster over the cut on Percy’s temple. “I won’t ask _how_ you got the electricity to try to power this foolhardy contraption of yours, but if I were you, I’d get rid of the evidence before anyone can pin this on you definitively.” He gave Percy a stern look as he palpated Percy’s ribs. “You are incredibly lucky you didn’t electrocute yourself or set this place on fire.”

“I am well aware of how fortunate I am,” said Percy, wincing. “If anything had happened to the library because of what I’d done, I would never have forgiven myself.”

“That’s not what I was worried about. There’s a reason I offered you this building as your workshop,” said Gilmore, frowning at Percy. “Even if it had caught on fire, this is far enough away that the library would be quite safe. I’m talking about your own blessed life, Percival! I wish you’d be more careful with it, for your sister’s sake if not mine.”

Percy hung his head, chastened.

Gilmore clasped his shoulder, waiting until Percy looked up and made eye contact. “You’ve a brilliant mind, my friend,” he said gently. “It’d be a shame to deprive the world of it because you were too eager to prove your own cleverness, do you understand me?”

Percy nodded, muttering vague promises to be more careful in the future. Gilmore smiled at him, patting him on the shoulder reassuringly and began packing up the first aid kit.

Cassandra settled on the floor next to Percy, unheeding of the mess. She smacked him on the back of the head and then handed him a flask. “Drink this, you reckless idiot. I’m sure your nerves could use some settling.”

Percy looked from the flask, to her, and then back to the flask. “I don’t think you should have this,” he said slowly, “but I’m not going to ask.”

“Probably better if you don’t,” she agreed.

He took a healthy swig and coughed as whatever spirits were in it burned its way down his throat. “Oh god, that’s vile.” He handed the flask back to her. Then he paused. Sniffed. Then sniffed again. “Why do you smell like smoke?” he asked his sister suspiciously.

Cassandra gave him a look as though butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. “I don’t smell anything,” she said, too innocent. “Maybe you’re just smelling whatever got burned during the explosion?”

Percy narrowed his eyes at her. “No, that is absolutely tobacco smoke I’m smelling right now. Just what have you been up to, Cassandra?”

\---

She’d definitely laid it on too thick. Damn it, time to deflect.

“Oh, that reminds me, look what I found, Percy!” Cassandra said hastily, pulling out the puzzle box she’d pocketed earlier.

“Don’t try to distract me from--what _is_ this?” said Percy, predictably getting distracted in spite of himself. He snatched the little metal curiosity out of her hands, bringing it closer to the lamp so he could inspect it more closely.

“Just something I found while I was out browsing in the shops,” Cassandra lied smoothly. “I thought it looked rather like the writing in those fusty old books you’ve always got your nose buried in. Do you know what it says?”

Percy examined the etchings on the box, tilting it to catch the light. “Well,” he said meditatively, “it’s certainly Celestial, but it appears to be ancient Celestial.”

“Is there a difference? You can still read it, can’t you?”

Percy shot her an impatient look. “ _Read_ it, yes; understanding, let alone translating it is another matter entirely.”

Cassandra huffed. “I don’t see why.”

“And how did you enjoy reading Shakespeare while you were at school?” Percy asked, rolling his eyes.

“Oh, it was horrid, I couldn’t understand fully three-quarters of what he… _oh_ ,” said Cassandra, deflating in realization.

“Exactly. Language evolves, context shifts. Translation is less a science than a...well, an art,” Percy explained, tilting his head so that he could focus through the one intact lens in his glasses. “Get 10 scholars in a room and ask them to translate an ancient text and you’ll get 10 different interpretations.”

“Well, _fine_ , what’s your best interpretation of what this box says then?”

He pursed his lips as he considered. “It says something about a...well that could mean ‘treasure’ or ‘jewel’ or really, any sort of precious metal, ‘in the North.’ Well, honestly, north of what?” Percy muttered in annoyance.

Cassandra cleared her throat meaningfully.

“Right,” he continued. “And...hmm, well we usually use that word to refer to some sort of contamination, but in the context of precious gems or metals? Maybe they’re trying to say ‘tarnished’ or ‘rusted...’” He furrowed his brow as he read on. “Well, they’re definitely invoking the ancient god, Pelor, here; that’s a phrase commonly used in prayers or charms for protection. And this last bit over here is…” he trailed off.

Gilmore and Cassandra exchanged curious glances when Percy continued to be silent. Cassandra quirked her brow at Gilmore and he shrugged in response. “Percy?” she prodded.

Percy started and coughed uncomfortably into a fist. Even in the dim light he looked a bit...flushed. “Forgive me, I was just...well this says something about a lock and a key but it’s hard to tell whether it’s referring to an actual lock and key or…” If possible, Percy flushed even deeper.

“Or what?” Cassandra demanded.

Percy looked embarrassed and seemed disinclined to explain further. There was a beat, and then Gilmore inhaled sharply and let out a noise of apparent enlightenment.

“ _What?_ ” Cassandra demanded yet again, this time directing her question at Gilmore.

Gilmore rubbed at his mustache, trying and failing to hide an amused grin. “Let us say that ancient Celestial is notorious for being rife with ah...euphemisms,” he explained delicately.

Cassandra blinked, looking from Gilmore, to Percy (who looked like he wanted to _die_ ), to the box, and back to Gilmore. Then, “ _Oh_.”

Percy let out a strangled noise of horror. “What do you _mean_ ‘oh’?!” His voice was unnaturally high. “You’re my baby sister! You can’t possibly understand what that means!”

“Oh honestly, Percival,” Cassandra huffed. “Stop being so missish. Our mother had seven children, do you honestly think she didn’t make sure I knew exactly where babies come from?”

Percy made another dismayed gurgling sound and seemed generally incapable of intelligent conversation for the time being.

Cassandra frowned and crossed her arms in disappointment. “So what you’re telling me is that we’ve possibly found some bauble that came from an ancient brothel?”

“ _Stop saying things like that!_ ”

“It’s as likely a possibility as any,” said Gilmore.

Cassandra brightened suddenly, serenely ignoring her brother going into a fit of apoplexy next to her. “Do you think a museum will pay us for it?”

“It couldn’t hurt to get it appraised. I’ve some experience with artifacts; I could give it a preliminary look-over,” Gilmore offered.

“What an excellent idea,” said Cassandra. “Percy, give Gilmore the box.”

“I’m not finished with it!” he hissed, as flustered as Cassandra had ever seen him. He took a few deep breaths, before continuing with a forced calm. “What I meant to say before I was--” he shuddered, “ _sidetracked_ was that I believe this opens up. Do you see the hinges here? And look, the pieces on this side appear to be interlocking. Now how do I…” He fiddled with the box, turning it with his fingers this way and that, then squeezed and--

_Sshhhk!_

The box flew open, the interlocking pieces fanning out so that the entire mechanism resembled an eight-pointed star. Tucked inside the compartment was a folded and weathered-looking piece of parchment. Percy and Cassandra looked wide-eyed at each other.

With trembling hands, Percy plucked the paper out of the box, unfolding it as Cassandra huddled in closer to get a better look. “Is that a map?” she asked breathlessly.

“It certainly looks like one,” he replied distractedly, trying to decipher the ancient Celestial text. “It’s obvious given the markings on the map but still, that definitely says ‘mountains,’ but that other word could mean ‘pale’ or ‘fair’ or some variation thereof depending on context--”

Percy’s ramblings cut off in a sharp inhale as his fingers froze, hovering over a sigil of a withered tree with shriveled roots and a dying sun setting over its bare twisting branches.

“Dear gods...” he breathed, awed. “It’s a map to _Whitestone_.”

“You’re joking,” said Cassandra, incredulous. “That city Great-Grandmother de Rolo insists our ancestors used to rule way back in the day?”

“With all due respect to your great-grandmother, Whitestone is a myth; it only exists in stories, on par with those of the sunken city of Vesrah,” said Gilmore.

Percy bobbed his head, half-agreeing, half-doubtful. “I don’t disagree that many of the stories are just that-- _stories_ \--but that doesn’t mean that a city named Whitestone didn’t exist at one point in history. Most texts about it--if it existed indeed--have apparently been lost to time, but I’ve found enough references to it in my research from other sources that I can’t help but believe that it must have. And in those sources I’ve found? I’ve seen this exact symbol.” Percy jabbed at the sigil on the map emphatically, practically vibrating with excitement. “Gilmore, just imagine if we actually find this place! The things we could learn! The articles we could publish! I’d like to see the Alabaster Lyceum try to reject my application then!” he declared, eyes alight with righteous purpose.

“Do you think there might be treasure? Or things we could sell for a lot of money?” asked Cassandra with great interest.

Gilmore sighed wearily. “May I see it?” he asked, reaching out a hand. Percy passed it over with only the slightest hesitation. Gilmore eyed it critically. “Where did you say you found this, Cassandra?”

“In the shops,” she replied without missing a beat.

Gilmore gave her a look that said he wasn’t fooled in the least. “The truth please, dear girl.”

She sighed. “I found it on the floor,” she mumbled, barely audible.

“On the floor?!” Percy sputtered.

“On the floor, where?” Gilmore pressed.

Cassandra resisted the urge to scuff her toe. “In a gambling den,” she mumbled again.

“ _Cassandra_ ,” Percy choked out, clearly about to have another apoplectic fit.

“Uh- _huh_ ,” said Gilmore, the skepticism practically dripping off the syllables. He squinted and brought the map closer to the burner, presumably to see it all the better.

“What were you _thinking_ going to a place like that?!” Percy squawked, fisting his hands in his hair.

“I was bored! And I was perfectly fine, as you can see for yourself,” said Cassandra, feeling excessively wronged. “Besides, if you think about it, it’s your fault to begin with for leaving me alone without anything useful to occupy my time. You know that’s what mother would say,” she finished with a tone of vicious triumph.

“You _unbelievable brat_ ,” Percy hissed, looking murderous. “I ought to--”

“Oh my goodness!”

Percy and Cassandra swung around, mid-argument, at the distress in Gilmore’s voice, watching in horror as the map went up in flames in his hands. They let out twin cries of dismay as Gilmore dropped the map reflexively, and they dove to the floor to smother the flames before it could be consumed entirely.

“Is it all right?” Cassandra asked urgently.

“You burned the map,” said Percy, aghast. “The part of the map with Whitestone--it’s gone.” He shot a horrified glance up at Gilmore, who looked contrite.

“I’m so sorry,” said Gilmore, looking genuinely upset. “I was just trying to get a better look and before I knew it, the paper caught fire.”

Percy didn’t respond, now staring dumbly at the scorched remnants of the map. Awkward silence reigned for a few moments as Percy mourned the loss of potentially the greatest archaeological find of this age and Cassandra patted him weakly on the shoulder in an attempt to comfort him.

“I _am_ sorry,” said Gilmore into the silence. “And not to be indelicate or thoughtless but...I’ve known of many an adventurer and scholar who has gone searching for the Lost City either to no avail or to a tragic end. If there is any truth to the rumors--if it’s truly the City of the Undead--I can’t imagine it’s any place you would want to be.” He paused, waiting for a response from the siblings. When none came, he continued, “Get some rest, you two. It’s been a long day. Take the day off to recover tomorrow, Percival. Please.” And with that, he bid them a good night and left.

Percy buried his face in his hands, while Cassandra chewed her lip guiltily, unsure what to do next. At length he looked up, his expression miserable. Cassandra patted him on the arm again awkwardly. “Maybe Gilmore has a point. I mean, who’s to say this was an actual map to Whitestone and not an elaborate prank?”

Percy sighed gustily. “Did you really pick it up off a floor in a gambling hell?”

“A ‘casino,’ if you please,” Cassandra sniffed. “It was disreputable, but not _that_ disreputable, give me some credit. But...yes. I picked it up after a half-elf and his twin sister dropped it during some misguided attempt to defend my honor.”

Percy’s head jerked up suddenly. For a moment, Cassandra thought Percy was going to interrogate her about what she needed defending from, but instead he said, “We have to find them,” with a look of utter determination on his face.

“The...half-elves?”

“Yes.” Percy nodded firmly. “We need to talk to them and find out where they found this box and anything else they can tell us about Whitestone.”

Cassandra could admire his sense of purpose but… “Percy, how do you even propose to find two complete strangers in a city of this size?”

“We’ll figure it out,” he replied, expression mulish. “We’ll start with that- ah- casino you seemed to enjoy so much.”

Cassandra sighed. She knew that face--that face meant there was no talking him out of this. She had a terrible feeling about this.

\--

**Emon Penitentiary**

“I can’t believe you lost it,” Vex’ahlia said, staring across the prison cell that she now could call home for the foreseeable future at her twin brother. Vax’ildan had claimed the top bunk for his own and was using it as a perch from which to surveil the entire thirty-six square feet of the cell.

“I’m sorry, I said I was sorry already,” Vax muttered. “I didn’t mean to lose it, you know.”

Vex sighed and laid her head in her hands. The loss of the puzzle box wouldn’t even be such a big deal, she thought, if she hadn’t just tried to use it to bribe their way out of prison. She’d had the guards on the hook up until the moment Vax reached into his cloak and then started patting down every single pocket.

“I can’t find it” were the words that sealed their fate and got them thrown into this cell.

“I know, I know you didn’t mean to lose it,” Vex said, still miserable. They’d been in a lot of rough spots before, her and Vax, and she didn’t want to fight about money. “It’s just that box was the only thing we managed to get out of that awful place.”

Vax leaped down from the bed and crossed the cell to his sister, an easy maneuver in such an enclosed space. He wrapped his arms around Vex in a tight hug. “Hey, that’s not true. We got out of there with our lives which is what’s most important. Who cares about a stupid box compared to that?”

Vex sighed and leaned into the embrace. When put like that, how could she stack up their lives against all the treasure in Whitestone? “I still wish we’d gotten at least one diamond.”

Vax chuckled. Vex wiggled out of his arms.

“I’m serious. Was a thousand gold too much to ask for?”

“People died, you know,” Vax said, still smiling.

That sobered Vex right up. “I know,” she said. It was still horrible to think of that little passage through the mountains where every shadow loomed like some creature ready to eat them up. The old stories all said that Whitestone was cursed, and if Vex hadn’t believed them before she sure as hell believed them now.

“Fucking Saundor,” she muttered.

“ _Fucking_ Saundor,” Vax repeated.

“If I ever see his stupid face again--”

“He’s probably dead,” Vax said. “Considering, well, everything that happened in that place.”

“If he ever shows his face again he’ll sure _wish_ he was dead,” Vex said violently. She didn’t take well to being left in the lurch, and their once traveling companion had done so spectacularly. Fully armored warriors sprung up out of nowhere, barely admonishing them to leave before attacking ferociously. One second Saundor was there, fighting alongside them against the leather clad warriors, and the next he was gone. The last Vex had seen of him he was ducking through a side door and so much for his protestations of eternal devotion.

Saundor screwed them, and because of him a lot of people died. Not people Vex knew well, just a few mercenaries hired by the Clasp to protect their investment… but people nonetheless. And maybe she and her brother would have joined them if they hadn’t also gotten separated from the group.

Vex still wasn’t sure just what she’d heard, huddling in that alcove with Vax and Trinket. Just ghoulish moans and the horrific screaming of her fellow mercenaries and after the commotion the worst silence she’d ever heard in her life.

When at last they’d looked, the scene had been one of the worst sights of Vex’s life. The bodies of her fellow mercenaries were torn limb from limb and scattered throughout the room. It had to be the work of the protectors guarding Whitestone, Vex’s rational mind said, but some other part of her knew it couldn’t be. No one human-- and the protectors had looked human, or close enough-- could make that kind of tableau.

She and Vax fled that place as quickly as they could, Vex pausing only to scoop up the puzzle box as they ran. They looked back only once they were safely passing between two mountains, only to see a line of warriors led by a red-haired woman who impassively watched them leave.

Even just remembering it set Vex to shivering, like the cold of those mountains had seeped into her bones and never left.

“So,” Vex said at last. “How about getting us out of here?”

Vax shook his head and spread his hands out helplessly. “Can’t,” he said. “The guards took my lockpicks.”

Vex stared at her brother. “You’re kidding.”

Vax said nothing.

“Poor Trinket,” Vex said. “All alone in the woods without us.”

“We’ll be out in a few days most likely,” Vax said hopefully.

“He doesn’t know that,” Vex said. “He’s probably alone and scared and wondering just what is taking us so long.”

“He’s a bear in the woods, it’s his natural habitat, I’m sure he’ll be just fine,” Vax murmured, trying to placate his sister’s obvious worries for her-- pet? Adopted bear son? At times it just wasn’t clear.

The sound of footsteps down the hall and the warden’s voice stopped all conversation. Vax leaned in close to Vex and in a low whisper said, “Okay, you distract the warden and I’ll get around behind and clock him on the head--”

“What? That’s a stupid plan,” Vex hissed.

“I thought you wanted to get out of here to see your bear.”

“I do want to get out of here, not get double arrested for assaulting a guard!”

“Are these the two prisoners you were looking for, sir?” the warden asked, turning the corner and showing Vex and Vax’s cell off to two strangers.

The two were close enough in appearance that they had to be siblings, though the man’s hair was fully white and the young woman’s was a rich brown. Both wore the clothing of the well-to-do, though not flashily.

The man, a bit of a scholarly look to him with those spectacles and his ink-stained cuffs, deferred to his sister. “Well?” he asked.

She nodded. Come to think of it, Vex thought, she looked rather familiar. Vex had always prided herself on her skills of perception, and she could have sworn she’d seen this girl’s face somewhere before.

“These are them,” the white-haired man said. He had the same pompous imperiousness about him that she’d seen in nobles before, a sort of straight-backed manner that said he was better than everyone else. For all that he was icily attractive, it set Vex’s guard up. “If we could have a moment to speak--”

“You have five minutes,” the warden said, and then he turned on his heel and left.

Vex exchanged a look with Vax. She wasn’t sure what these two wanted but she’d dealt with these noble types before, and these two might just get them out of here. “Let me do the talking,” she murmured.

“Always.”

Vex sauntered up to the bars, letting her hips sway just a little bit extra. She smiled enticingly. “Is there something we can do for you two?”

“Yes, actually, there is,” the white-haired man said. “My name is Percival Fredrickstein von Mussel Klossowski de Rolo III and this is my sister Cassandra--”

“Lovely to meet you, Percy.”

He looked somewhat taken aback at being so summarily nicknamed, and some of that aloof noble manner dropped away. “Well,” he said, and Vex could almost swear he was blushing. “My sister here happened to pick up your puzzle box and we were hoping to ask you a few questions--”

Vex went cold all over. “No,” she said.

“No?” Percy looked puzzled.

“No,” Vex repeated. “You’re here to ask us about Whitestone.”

Another puzzled look from Percy, as he leaned in closer towards the bars of the cell. “How did you know that the box pertains to Whitestone?”

“Because that’s where I found it,” Vex said sweetly. “We were there.”

Percy looked intrigued, but Cassandra seemed unimpressed. “How do we know you aren’t just having us on?”

“I do remember you,” Vax said, sitting up from where he’d claimed the lower of the bunk beds. “You’re the girl from the casino--”

Vex whirled to face her brother. “The one you got into a brawl for?” she asked. “The one who got us arrested?”

“I didn’t ask him to,” Cassandra said, affronted. “And I didn’t mean to get you arrested.”

Percy ignored all this, and took another step closer to the cell bars, so that he was actually leaning against them. “You were actually there? Whitestone?” He stared at Vex, blue eyes wide with a hypnotizing eagerness.

Vex nodded, nervous and somehow drawn in by that naked curiosity.

“You swear?”

“Every damn day.”

Percy blinked. “I didn’t--that’s not what I meant--”

“I know what you mean,” Vex said, amused at being able to fluster him. “Look, we were there. Whitestone, the lost city.”

“Could you--” Percy cleared his throat. “Could you tell me how to get there? The exact location?”

Oh god he actually wanted to go there. She should feel worse about possibly sending this noble nerd into the worst place on earth, but maybe there was a way he could help them out. “Do you really want to know?” she asked, and beckoned him closer.

Percy leaned in so close that Vex could see the flecks of dust on his spectacles, so close that she could feel his breath through the bars. “Yes,” he said in a low whisper. “I really, really do.”

Vex wasn’t sure why she kissed him, except that it seemed the thing to punctuate her point. It was a swift meeting of lips, his chapped and sliding against hers, and Vex pulling him close by his chin. Percy staggered back, stunned.

“Then get us the hell out of here,” Vex ordered.

Percy only continued to stare until the warden came back around and led the two of them away.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Percy meets a patron and a group of adventurers is gathered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks once again to [Blindvogel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Blindvogel/pseuds/Blindvogel) and [semaisin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/seimaisin/pseuds/seimaisin) for beta-ing!

**The streets of Emon**

“What now?” Cassandra asked her brother as they headed away from the prison.

“Now we find a bank,” Percy replied, the stride of his long legs eating up the pavement, his face set in determination. Cassandra sped up to a trot to keep pace.

“A bank? Whatever for?”

He slanted a look at her out of the corner of his eyes. “Well...for bribe money, of course. I mean, I’m assuming that’s how one goes about ah, springing someone out of prison.”

Cassandra couldn’t hold back a rather unladylike snort. “Of course,” she repeated.

“Two hundred gold ought to do it, don’t you think? Or should we go up to 400, maybe 500, since there’s two of them?” Percy mused. 

Cassandra stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. “You’re serious,” she said. 

Percy paused a few steps ahead of her and turned, frowning. “Of course I’m serious. Why? Is that too little? Too much?”

“How would I know? Do you think I go about bailing people out of prison on a regular basis? And that’s not even my point,” said Cassandra, not waiting for a reply. “My point is: why are we even trying to get them out of prison in the first place?”

“You heard them. They know where Whitestone is,” said Percy, as though this ought to be totally obvious. 

Cassandra stared. “People will say all manner of things, _especially_ to get out of prison. What makes you think they aren’t lying out of their arses?”

A flush was starting to creep up Percy’s neck and he pushed up his glasses, a sure sign he was getting flustered. “Because...call it a hunch if you want. But I believe them.” He turned on his heel and started walking again, shoulders drawing up around his ears. 

Cassandra scurried to catch up with him. “Who _are_ you?” she asked, incredulous. “Because you can’t be my brother, who has to consult fifteen different books and sources before he comes to any kind of conclusion.”

Percy sighed. “Cass…”

“It’s because she kissed you, isn’t it?”

“Wha-- _no!_ ” he spluttered, ears glowing bright red.

“It is!” Cassandra accused, scenting blood in the water.

“I assure you,” Percy said stiffly, adjusting his glasses again, “that my interest is entirely academ--”

“She kissed you and now you’ve gone and gotten a crush and now we’re going to be swindled out of 500 gold,” Cassandra groused. “Lord, Percy, you’d think you’d never been kissed before the way she’s got you so twisted up you can’t even think straight.”

There was a suspicious silence.

Cassandra turned to look up at her brother, who was currently doing his best impression of a cooked lobster. “Oh my god,” she said slowly, with the sort of dawning, vicious glee not unfamiliar to younger siblings everywhere. “You really haven’t been kissed before!”

“I don’t see how that’s at all relevant--” Percy started to bluster.

“You’re twenty-three years old!” Cassandra continued, equal parts delighted and mystified. “Even I’ve managed to kiss someone and I’m five years younger than--”

“Oh my god, _I can’t know this_ ,” said Percy, covering his ears and speeding up, trying to escape this conversation. 

Cassandra picked up her skirts as she tried her best to keep pace. “Oh honestly, Percy, all I’m saying is that you can’t go breaking women out of jail just because they’ve stolen your first kiss! I mean, do try to be reasonable here.” 

“If you’re not going to help me, you don’t have to stick around,” said Percy shortly, eyes fixed straight ahead, expression mulish. “I am well aware that this could all blow up in my face, but I have to try. I have to know if Whitestone...if it really…” he trailed off. 

Cassandra was silent for a while as she chewed this over. She sighed. “Is this really that important to you?”

Percy nodded solemnly. “It is.”

“So you’re just going to, what? Waltz into the prison, set down a sack of gold and demand they release two prisoners?”

“I was planning on being a little more subtle than that,” he protested. “I managed to convince the warden to let us speak to them in the first place. How much harder could it be to, you know, slip him a bit of gold and convince him to release them to us?”

“Not so easy as that, I don’t think,” said Cassandra dubiously. 

“If you have a better idea, I’d love to hear it,” he bit back, peeved. 

“All I’m saying is, if you want someone who’s a charming talker, used to throwing around ridiculous displays of wealth, and who’s not afraid to bend the law, there’s only one person to go to.”

Percy frowned. “Who do you--?” His face paled as the realization hit him. “Oh no, not _him_.”

Cassandra threaded her arm through his and started to tug him in the opposite direction. “You know I’m right, come on.”

“But can’t we just--”

“No.”

“But--”

“Percy, _come on_.”

\---

**The Mansion District**

The Mansion District, located within the illustrious Cloudtop District in the center of the city, was a mere forty-five minute trip by steam trolley. Percy and Cassandra alighted at the closest stop and elected to walk to their destination rather than hail an auto-hackney.

Entering the district was like entering an entirely different world. No trace of urban industry or modern architecture could be found here in this most rarefied of neighborhoods. Every dwelling was a testament to historic wealth, as exemplified in palatial edifices built on classic lines, set amidst sprawling greenery and artfully sculpted shrubbery. The only concessions to modernity that could be observed from the outside were the streetlights and the occasional autocar. 

Percy and Cassandra couldn’t help but goggle a little. The de Rolos, as wealthy as they were, had never lived anywhere so grand. The home in which they had grown up in the city, as well as the country estate they resided in during the summer months, was fashionable (and more importantly, given seven children, large) enough for their station, but they rather paled in comparison to these stately paeans to luxury. 

The building they were now standing in front of, however, was--shall we say--a bit of an anomaly amidst such refined elegance. Where the other homes in this neighborhood were built with an eye for such things as balance, proportion, symmetry, and a general sense of good taste, the structure before them was...very much not any of those things. In fact, it could most charitably be described as “where good taste goes to die.” 

The sight Percy now beheld was a stunning morass of competing architectural elements, such that one could not decide where one’s eye ought to be drawn first. Perhaps the oversized arched pediment set on precariously thin columns over the front entryway? Or the bizarre cascade of rooflines? The veritable bevy of windows of varying sizes, shapes, and styles? And this is all assuming, of course, that one was not first blinded by the absolutely egregious shade of purple the house was painted. 

It offended every one of Percy’s sensibilities.

“ _New money_ ,” Percy sneered. 

Beside him, Cassandra rolled her eyes. “You sound like Great-Grandmother de Rolo.”

Under normal circumstances, Percy might bristle at being compared to that backwards harridan, but as it were, he was not particularly bothered that their opinions on this matter would be in perfect accord. It must be what any person with a modicum of taste would think. This… _monstrosity_ was an affront to the laws of aesthetics and architecture and all that was good and true in this universe and he would have told his sister just so had she not taken him by the arm and fairly frogmarched him up the winding walkway to the front door.

Which was naturally a continuing exercise in poor taste. It was covered in gold leaf and aside from being utterly gaudy, it featured, upon close inspection, faintly obscene reliefs of satyrs and dryads and other creatures Percy recognized from reading about Fey mythology cavorting and carousing against a wilderness backdrop. Percy curled his lip. 

Cassandra tugged at the gold chain hanging beside the door and a jaunty, melodious ringing was heard echoing from within. Minutes later, the door opened and they were greeted by a wholly nondescript man, who must have been the butler. “May I help you?” he asked. Both his voice and his face were expressionless. 

“Cassandra and Percival de Rolo, here to see Mr. Shorthalt. Is he in?” Cassandra asked. 

“Master Shorthalt is at home, but he may require a few minutes to make himself presentable, if you do not mind the wait,” the butler replied.

“That’s perfectly fine,” said Cassandra. 

In response, he opened the door wider and stepped aside, gesturing them in. Without a word, he led them through the enormous foyer to a sitting room. The interior of the house was much like its exterior--loud and mismatched and expensively but overly decorated. Cassandra and Percy took a seat gingerly on an overstuffed sofa upholstered in bright purple velvet, as the butler inquired after their preferences in refreshments in a colorless voice. With the assurance that coffee would serve perfectly well, the butler quietly and efficiently bowed his way out of the room. 

There was silence for a few long moments.

“All right, I have to ask,” Percy said at length. “What does one gnome even need with all this space?”

“What does anyone living in this neighborhood need with this much space?” Cassandra snorted. “But I will say that Scanlan hosts a number of artists and musicians and actors for however long they need. The last time I was here there was a performing troupe led by a half-orc named Dr. Dranzel. Quite a charming fellow--utterly unscrupulous of course, but charming.”

Percy screwed his face up at Cassandra’s apparent familiarity with this place and its erstwhile owner, but had to concede that there was merit to what she said. He’d only met the gnome a handful of times, but had heard an awful lot more from his sister and Gilmore both. By all accounts, Scanlan wore a number of hats, aside from “obscenely wealthy”. He was a self-described “man of leisure,” an infamous lothario (which gave Percy serious misgivings considering Scanlan’s association with his baby sister), a renowned musician and performer, a sometimes-poet, and a dedicated patron of the arts. He was also--quite unknown to most of the world--a best-selling novelist, writing under the pseudonym F.B Jean-Luc Australia. Cassandra was obsessed with his books; personally, Percy thought they were dreck. 

As if summoned by Percy’s thoughts, the gnome in question finally made an appearance. He plodded into the sitting room clad only in a satin purple housecoat, squinting and looking as if he’d only just rolled out of bed. 

“Not that I’m not happy to see my favorite pair of siblings,” Scanlan croaked, rubbing at his eyes, “but what are you doing here so early?”

Percy arched an incredulous eyebrow. “It’s two in the afternoon.”

“Like I said,” said Scanlan, undeterred, “what are you doing here so early?”

“We’re here to ask a favor,” said Cassandra.

“Oh?” Scanlan seemed to perk up a bit at this, hopping up into an armchair. “What kind of favor would this be?”

“The disreputable kind,” Cassandra said brightly. 

Scanlan’s eyes gleamed with interest. “Go on,” he encouraged, steepling his fingers in front of his mouth. 

“We need to convince the warden to release two half-elves from prison,” said Cassandra. “We’ve got the gold but not the brazenness to carry it off.”

“Well you’ve come to the right gnome then,” he said with a crooked grin. “Although, might I say, my dear, that I think you’re plenty brazen.”

“ _No,_ ” said Percy to Scanlan, flatly. To his disgruntlement, Cassandra was actually preening.

“Oh relax, I didn’t mean it that way,” said Scanlan dismissively. “But yeah, I could be persuaded to dust off the ol’ ‘Burt Reynolds, Esquire,’ persona for you, depending. What are these two half-elves of yours in for? Because, I mean, if you’re asking me to get two stone-cold murderers out for you that _might_ be a problem.”

“Oh no, nothing like that,” Cassandra assured him. “Just a bit of ‘disturbing the peace’ and getting into bar brawls, that’s all.”

“Ah, two fellows after my own heart,” said Scanlan. “And you need them out because…” he trailed off meaningfully. 

“Well, you see, the girl gave my dear brother his very first kiss and I’m afraid he’s gone and fallen in love,” Cassandra lied cheerfully. Percy was somehow not surprised by the ease with which she’d sacrificed his dignity and suppressed an eyeroll. “Only she won’t leave prison without her brother--”

“Of course,” Scanlan agreed. “A commendable sentiment.”

“Indeed, and so here we are to beg for your help for the sake of my brother’s happiness,” Cassandra finished, making huge eyes at Scanlan. “Please, Mr. Shorthalt, can we count on your aid?” 

Scanlan heaved a dreamy sigh. “Ah, there’s nothing I enjoy more than a good love story.” He shot Percy a wink. “That must’ve been quite a kiss, eh, Percival?”

“Quite,” Percy said after a beat and--judging by the glare Cassandra was shooting him out of the corner of her eye--not particularly convincingly. 

“Tell me about her,” said Scanlan, settling back into the armchair and stacking his hands atop his stomach. “What’s she like? How did you meet?”

Well… _shit_. Percy was not prepared in the least for this level of deceit and improvisation. Cassandra was practically burning holes in the side of his head with her eyes and he could feel her willing him not to bollocks this all up. 

“Oh, she’s lovely,” said Percy, fiddling with his glasses as he wracked his brain for what to say next. “Very clever. Quite witty, I’m sure you’d like her. We actually met-- _oh dear god_!” Percy cried, both he and Cassandra nearly jumping out of their skins when a wispy-looking maid bearing a tray with biscuits and coffee suddenly appeared (seemingly) out of nowhere. 

“Good lord,” Cassandra said weakly, clutching her chest. “I’d forgotten how awfully soft-footed your servants are.”

“I beg your pardon, miss,” said the maid as she started to pour out the coffee, her tone as oddly emotionless as the butler’s. 

“I employ only the most discreet servants,” Scanlan boasted, accepting a cup of coffee. “Thank you, Myrna. As you can see, you’ll hardly notice they’re around.”

“I can see that,” Percy said slowly, accepting his own cup and eyeing Myrna warily as she dipped a curtsy and slipped out of the room on eerily silent feet. 

“Your servants are certainly...unobtrusive,” Cassandra agreed, looking about as unsettled as Percy felt. 

“That they are, that they are.” Scanlan took a sip of his coffee, humming in satisfaction, and continued, “But you were in the middle of telling me all about your lady love. What was her name again?”

“Ah, her name is…” Percy trailed off, horrified, as it suddenly occurred to him that he’d _never gotten her name_. He shot a panicked look at Cassandra who stared back at him wide-eyed, obviously coming to a similar realization. 

“You were doing so well,” sighed Scanlan, shaking his head. He shot a finger gun at Cassandra. “Like I said, my girl, you've got brazenness in spades, but your brother could do with some; the orphan eyes you gave me at the end was a little much but you probably could have carried it off if Percival had committed to his performance.”

Cassandra leaned over to smack Percy on the shoulder. “You couldn't have just made something up?” she demanded. 

“Well, excuse me, but you should have warned me in advance if you wanted me to pull off a convincing lie,” Percy snipped back, rubbing at his shoulder. 

Scanlan shook his head knowingly. “Rookie mistake. Always get your stories straight before you try to pull off a con, kids.”

“You see why we need you?” said Cassandra. 

“I do indeed,” Scanlan replied with a solemn nod. “And while I commend your efforts, you can't bullshit a bullshitter--so what do you really need them for?”

“Well, it was worth a shot,” Cassandra sighed. She shot Percy a look, as if to ask, _Should we tell him?_

Percy shrugged; it wasn't like they had any other choice at this point. 

Cassandra turned back to Scanlan. “They claim they know how to get to Whitestone.”

Scanlan’s eyebrows flew up. “That’s...quite the story.”

“Isn’t it just?” said Cassandra sardonically. 

“Yes, yes, your disbelief has been duly noted, can we move on?” said Percy impatiently. 

“You, at least, seem to be convinced, Percival,” said Scanlan, scrutinizing him. “I assume they had some compelling evidence to back up their claim?”

“Oh, _something’s_ compelling him, all right,” Cassandra muttered under her breath. Percy shot her a quelling glare, which she ignored. 

“They had a map, hidden inside a metal puzzle box,” said Percy, reaching into his coat pocket to retrieve said item. “I don’t have the equipment to run the kind of testing needed to date it accurately, but I’ve had enough experience handling genuine ancient artifacts that I can at least be certain that it’s not an obvious fake.” 

Scanlan frowned thoughtfully and held out a hand. “Do you mind?”

Percy hesitated briefly, before standing up to give Scanlan the box. Scanlan turned it over in his nimble hands, studying it intently from all angles, while Percy hovered unsubtly next to his chair. 

“I’m not an expert,” Scanlan said at last, “but it certainly does _feel_ old. You said the map is inside?”

“Well, yes,” said Percy, taking the box from him to open it. “But I’m afraid it suffered a bit of misfortune when Gilmore accidentally burned it over an open flame.” He showed Scanlan the sadly scorched remains. 

“‘Accidentally’, huh?” said Scanlan, with a skeptical tilt of his eyebrow as he looked it over. “A bit convenient that the part that’s missing is the part you need, isn’t it? And it’s not like Gilmore to be so careless.”

“...perhaps,” Percy admitted reluctantly, unwilling to speak ill of his employer, however obliquely. “But that’s exactly why we need these twins; without the map, we need them to guide us there.” 

Scanlan rubbed his chin, humming quietly as he considered the matter. Percy and Cassandra sat in anticipatory silence, shooting each other nervous looks as they awaited his decision.

“Ah, what the hell,” Scanlan said at length, folding up the map and tucking it back into the box. “I’ll do it--but on one condition.”

“What condition?” Percy asked warily. 

“You take me with you.”

Percy and Cassandra stared at him, jaws dropped. They turned to look at each other in baffled commiseration before returning their stunned gazes to Scanlan. 

“I beg your pardon?” asked Percy.

“You heard me. I want to come with you.”

“But...why?!” said Cassandra, incredulous.

“A couple of reasons, actually,” said Scanlan, with a careless wave of his hand. “One: if they’re pulling one over on you, it’ll be _hilarious_ and I want to see that. Two: if they’re telling the truth, it’s going to be _fucking awesome_ and I want to see that. Either way, I’m entertained.”

“You forgot the third option, where we might die horribly on this ridiculous journey,” said Cassandra flatly. 

“Eh,” he said, shrugging. “It’ll be interesting, at least.”

“So...you want to come along because you’re _bored_? Is that about the size of it?” asked Percy, looking askance at him. 

“That’s such a pedestrian way of putting it,” Scanlan complained, wrinkling his nose. “I am an _artiste_ , suffering from _ennui_ \--”

“That means ‘bored,’” said Percy.

“--a malaise of the spirit--” Scanlan continued, with growing passion, blithely ignoring Percy’s interjection, “--that saps one’s creativity; that makes one’s wine taste bitter and sour; that turns food to ashes in one’s mouth; that leaches the color from the world; that causes vigorous, frequent love-making to seem like--”

“Okay, that’s enough!” said Percy hastily, ears glowing pink. 

Cassandra eyed Scanlan narrowly. “Aren’t you supposed to be working on your new book?”

Scanlan shuddered. _Actually_ shuddered. “Ssshhh,” he hissed, setting down his coffee cup and waving his arms as if to ward off evil spirits. “If you talk about it too loudly, _She’ll_ appear,” he whispered, looking around the room suspiciously. 

Cassandra rolled her eyes. “Please don’t tell me you’re trying to get in on this ridiculous farce to avoid Sherri.”

Scanlan made a strangled sort of noise and shushed her again, eyes darting nervously. 

“But Sherri’s lovely!” said Percy, confused. She’d been his co-worker once upon a time, before she’d left to focus on the publishing company full-time. “Why are you talking about her like that?”

“She’s considerably less lovely when she’s breathing down your neck and badgering you about deadlines and drafts,” said Scanlan darkly. 

“Which she wouldn’t have to do if you’d just finish _Kingslayer Chronicles_ already!” said Cassandra, exasperated. “We’ve been waiting for _The Doors of Bone_ for _years_. Will Purvon get his wings back? What was it that Shrike Trickfists found at the Temple of--”

“What have I said? You can ask all you want, but I’m not giving away any spoilers!” said Scanlan, pointing an admonishing finger at her. “And trust me, no one wants this book to be written more than I do, but I just…” He sighed and sagged back in the armchair. “I’m blocked, Cassie-girl. The words won’t come, no matter how hard I try.” 

“Hence the _ennui_?” said Cassandra, almost sympathetically.

Scanlan nodded forlornly, heaving a beleaguered sigh. 

“And this pleasure jaunt will help you...how, exactly?”

“Well, that’s the thing,” said Scanlan, sitting up in his armchair, eyes brightening. “I’ve been thinking for a while that maybe what I need is a change of pace, something to get out of the rut I’m in and get those creaky wheels in the ol’ attic going. If I could get a few weeks where I don’t have to deal with the Dragon knocking at my door asking how many words I’ve written, maybe something will shake loose. Maybe all this adventuring will inspire me! I could finally finish the book! Or start a whole new series entirely! And what if we end up finding Whitestone for real? I could write a memoir and end up breaking into the nonfiction genre as well! There are so many possibilities!” he finished breathlessly, fists clenched and an almost zealous gleam in his eyes.

Cassandra cocked an eyebrow at Percy--a wordless _Well?_

Percy scrubbed at his cheek dubiously. “We, of course, would appreciate your assistance in retrieving our erstwhile guides,” he said carefully, “but--and forgive me, I don’t wish to offend, but I fear you may not find the expedition very...comfortable for you.”

“You think I can’t rough it,” said Scanlan knowingly. 

 

Rather than dignify that with a response, Percy quirked a brow and looked around meaningfully at their outrageously expensive surroundings. 

“No, no, I can see your point,” Scanlan agreed. “I have gotten used to my creature comforts, but it may surprise you to know that once upon a time, I was quite the traveler.” 

“Were you?” asked Percy, skeptically.

“Oh yes,” said Scanlan, settling back comfortably in his chair. “I came from very humble beginnings, you know. As a younger gnome, I once traveled the length and breadth of Tal’Dorei with nothing more than my lute and my shawm and the clothes on my back, making a living through street and tavern performances--and the occasional bit of sleight of hand, if you know what I mean,” he said with a conspiratorial eyebrow wriggle. 

“Gilmore says you’ve been to Ankh’Harel,” said Cassandra.

“That I have,” said Scanlan, nodding. “Got banned from a casino there, if you can believe that.”

“I’m shocked,” Percy drawled. 

“Never would have expected it of you,” said Cassandra, equally as droll.

“I’ve been to Vassalheim too,” he continued, ignoring their digs.

“Let me guess: where you got banned from The Platinum Sanctuary?” asked Cassandra, smirking. 

“No respect for your elders,” Scanlan tsked, without any heat. “As it turns out, Vassalheim is where I--”

“I think you’ve made your point,” Percy interrupted. Once Scanlan got into storyteller mode, it was very hard to stop him. “You’re quite the world traveller. I can concede that to you.”

“But as you say, you _were_ much younger then,” said Cassandra. 

“I’m hardly decrepit now!”

“By your own admission you’ve become accustomed to a certain style of living! I’m only thinking of your comfort and well-being,” she replied sweetly. 

Scanlan scowled at her. “And you think you’ll fare any better, Miss Priss?”

“I’m very adaptable.” She tossed her hair with a disdainful sniff. 

“I don’t see how you can have reservations about me coming along when you’re bringing her,” said Scanlan to Percy. 

“If I had my way, I wouldn’t, but I lost that argument on the way over here,” Percy sighed. 

Cassandra only sipped her coffee, face placid but radiating smugness all the same.

“All right, all right,” said Scanlan, rubbing his face. “Why don’t we consider this a business venture?”

Percy and Cassandra shared a considering look. “We’re listening,” said Percy cautiously.

“How were you planning to finance your expedition?”

“With my own money, naturally,” said Percy. “And I thought perhaps Gilmore might be interested in backing it.” 

Both Cassandra and Scanlan snorted at that. 

“Gilmore is a very generous friend, but he’s much too savvy to stake his money on a venture as farfetched as this one,” said Scanlan. 

“He essentially told us it was a fool’s errand last night, brother,” Cassandra agreed. “I don’t think we should expect him to help us out.” 

“I, on the other hand, am very willing to throw some of my vast fortune your way,” said Scanlan. “In exchange for a place in your party.” 

“And that’s all you want?” Percy asked, eyes narrowing.

“I’d be willing to negotiate a percentage of any profits made as a result of this investment, of course,” he replied. “As any sponsor would. I’d also be willing to hire additional crew, if you’re concerned about our safety.”

“What kind of crew?” asked Cassandra.

“As it happens, I know a very good medic who has a very large friend,” said Scanlan. 

“A medic does sound useful,” Cassandra said to Percy.

“That is true,” he admitted reluctantly, rubbing his chin. 

“So we have a deal then?” Scanlan asked.

“Let’s be clear about this: you’re willing to co-sponsor this expedition--”

“Let’s say we split the expenses fifty-fifty,” said Scanlan.

“And what about the additional crew?” asked Cassandra.

“Fifty percent of the expenses, as well as the salary for the additional people I bring in,” Scanlan conceded. 

“--for a place in the party and a to-be-determined percentage of any profits made as a result,” Percy finished. 

“That’s about the size of it,” Scanlan agreed. 

“Well, I think that’s very fair,” said Percy. “What do you think, Cassandra.”

“I’ve no objection,” said Cassandra. “But we are definitely going to be putting this into writing.”

“I’d expect nothing less,” said Scanlan.

“Then I think we have an accord,” said Percy, holding out a hand.

Scanlan took it and shook. “Excellent!” He beamed. “I think you’ll come to find that this is exactly what we both needed.” 

“I’m sure,” said Cassandra. “Now then, I believe we have some half-elves to collect?”

Scanlan hopped down from the chair, mischief sparkling in his dark eyes. “Leave it to me,” he said, cracking his knuckles. “I know just what to do.”

\---

**Percy’s Apartment, Emon**

“You’re sure I can’t talk you out of this, Percival?”

Percy looked up from his already packed-to-the-brim trunk where he was making final preparations to see Gilmore standing at the doorway. It would take a lot for Percy’s employer, patron, and friend to lose his natural luster, but there was a subdued quality to his expression. 

Percy looked away. “Thank you,” he said stiffly. “For all that you have done for me and for my family, but I’m afraid that I will not, as you say, be talked out of this.” 

“Well, it was worth a try.” Gilmore grinned, the buoyancy of his usual mood returning to its normal happy equilibrium. 

Percy resumed his packing, tossing last minute items into his trunk. Most of these were personal; his tools and equipment and Diplomacy and all the rest had been carefully packed away and sent over to Scanlan last night. He considered a spare shaving kit, and then tossed it in the trunk. “I know that you think that this is a fool’s venture, that Whitestone doesn’t exist--”

“It is a fool’s venture,” Gilmore interjected. “Whitestone doesn’t exist.” 

Percy grinned ruefully at Gilmore. “Even so, I have to try and follow this to wherever it leads. I am sorry that it means I must leave the library in the lurch for the time being, but--”

Gilmore waved him off. “We’ll manage,” he said. “Yes, I am sad to lose my best employee, but as it turns out, since Sherri is losing her best client, I can tempt her back to work for me, for the time being at least.” 

Percy sat back on his heels. He hadn’t considered that Sherri might help Gilmore out, but with Scanlan scampering out of his contract it made a certain amount of sense. “That’s-- well, that’s certainly a relief.” 

“As I said, we’ll manage,” Gilmore said. He chuckled. “And perhaps I shall have an explosion-free few months for a change.” 

“Er--” Percy said. 

Again, Gilmore chuckled. “I am only joking, of course,” he said. “Whenever you exhaust yourself of this fruitless treasure hunt, the library shall be here.” 

Gilmore held out his hand to Percy. Percy hesitated a bare moment, before reaching out his own hand and shaking it firmly. “If I do find Whitestone, I promise not to gloat too much. And I might even mention you in the publication.” 

“You won’t find it, so I won’t worry too much,” Gilmore said, clapping Percy on the shoulder. “And Percival--” he paused, the ebullient smile falling from his face. It looked almost like Gilmore was searching for words, a rare enough occurrence that Percy’s stomach flipped over itself. “Be careful out there,” he said at last. “Good people have lost their lives trying to find that city.” 

Percy tried to ignore the shudder that had just gone up his spine. “Of course.” 

Gilmore bid him farewell and Percy finished packing up the rest of his things before he collected Cassandra, still mostly asleep at this hour in the morning, hoisting her trunk up in his other hand. He locked up the door to the tiny apartment and left the key for his landlord. His earlier unease forgotten, Percy set off with his sister into the fresh-smelling Emon morning with a growing sense of optimism. They were setting out on an adventure the likes of which he’d never quite taken before, hopefully to uncover some sort of family history and also perhaps the greatest archaeological find of the last half-decade. It was hard not to be sort of excited. 

The wide boulevards around the museums and libraries where the scholars congregated melted away into the crowded markets of Emon, teeming with all the people doing their morning shopping. Percy shouldered his way through, using his and Cassandra’s trunks as a shield between his body and the crowd. It worked for the most part, though Percy was glad that his more volatile chemicals had been delivered last night, and he found himself in the maze of planked pathways and quays and jetties and little hidey-holes that formed the docks. 

Percy paused, getting his bearings and trying to remember the directions that Scanlan had told them. “Now then--”

“It’s that way,” Cassandra said. She’d been groggy and not in a mood to talk all morning, but she was looking far more alert now, with her eyebrow raised in an arch expression. Percy looked where she was pointing and realized she was right. 

“Lead the way,” Percy said, gesturing with his trunk that she should do so. 

She did so with a minimal rolling of the eyes which Percy considered for Cassandra was quite reasonable. She led him away from the shipdocks and up a steep incline of stairs to where Emon’s small fleet of skyships were presently docked. Some were military but many were commercial and passenger skyships that made regular runs all around Tal’Dorei. 

Percy had tried his level best to act dignified when he’d learnt that they were to travel by skyship rather than by train or carriage or some other overland method. It had worked for the most part, though Cassandra’s sly smiles at dinner told him that he hadn’t been fully able to conceal his excitement. Or perhaps it was the fact that she knew he’d been obsessed with the things since sixteen. 

Actually approaching the _Deera_ left Percy staring. In profile, she looked much like a sailing ship of old - before steam and steel had taken their place as king - all sleek polished and painted wood and rope rigging with a heavy keel to keep her balanced. But instead of the many masts and geometric sails of an oceangoing ship, the Deera sported a massive gas bag that would hold its weight and the weight of its cargo aloft. 

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” 

Percy glanced down to see Scanlan come up to his waist. Left lacking in arch witticisms by the spectacle of the airship, Percy simply said, “Yes, she is.” 

“Ever ridden one before?” 

“Once,” Percy said. “But never over such a large distance.” 

“He’s obsessed with airships,” Cassandra confessed to Scanlan. He glared at her, readying a retort, but her look said very clearly: _Well, aren’t you?_

Percy shook his head. “You’re a brat.”

“Of course I am, who else would keep you in line?” Cassandra said. She held out her hand. “Now if you would be so kind as to hand me my trunk, brother, I mean to find our cabin and catch up on my interrupted sleep.” 

“Take mine up as well,” Percy said, handing both trunks over to his sister. She made a face but took the baggage and trudged up the gangplank to the deck of the ship where she joined the small crowd of passengers already aboard. Percy peered at the passengers but saw no faces he recognized. 

“Are we still waiting on anyone?” he asked Scanlan idly. 

“You and your sister were first to arrive, actually,” Scanlan said. “Though there’s two of them now.” He waved, jumping up a little bit so that even his short stature could be seen all the way down the very long dock. 

Percy looked towards where Scanlan was waving. Ambling up the dock was another gnome dressed in rough khakis with her white hair piled on top of her head as if she was used to and ready for some hard work. Beside her strode a giant. Or well, the gray-skinned and heavily-tattooed man was probably not a giant but he still stood eight feet tall if he was an inch and had muscles that looked like he could punch through solid steel if he put his mind to it. 

“This is the ‘additional crew’ you hired, then?” Percy asked as the mismatched two strode up to them. 

“As good as a full platoon,” Scanlan said proudly. 

“And cheaper too,” the gnome woman said. She shook Percy’s hand, grip surprisingly strong for her small size. “We’re mercenaries.” 

“Nice to meet you,” the giant man said. 

“Percy, meet the luminous, radiant,” Percy raised his eyebrows at Scanlan’s use of synonymous adjectives, “most beautiful and perfect gnome in all the land and,” he turned to Percy conspiratorially, “my future wife--”

“Err,” said the other gnome. “We’ll have to talk about that.”

“The lovely Pike Trickfoot,” Scanlan brushed right past Pike’s hesitation with aplomb. “And this pile of cold hard beef is Grog Strongjaw, a goliath and also really wicked with a hammer.” 

Grog grinned, clearly pleased by the description. Percy held out his hand a little gingerly, fairly sure that, if he chose to, Grog could break all his fingers. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.” 

Grog, to Percy’s surprise, took his hand and shook nearly like a gentleman. “Alikewise, good sir,” he said, with a put-upon poshness. He dropped Percy’s hand and the accent upon turning to Scanlan. “Thanks for inviting us along on this one, Scanlan.” 

“Of course, what are friends for?” Scanlan asked. 

Pike smiled at the two of them. “I’ll see you aboard,” she said. “We should go find our cabin.” 

They too disappeared up the gangplank to the ship and into the small crowd of passengers. Percy watched the skyship rock slightly when Grog stepped onboard with a small bit of concern. He knew from avid research that skyship captains had to carefully consider the weight of anyone and anything brought onboard or else risk compromising their vessel’s ability to fly. 

“How did you ever convince the captain to let him onboard?” Percy mused. 

“Oh, Captain Damon was quite accommodating,” he said. “Especially after I’d already gotten him to agree to bring along your girlfriend’s bear.” 

“She really isn’t-- I’m sorry, what?” Percy whipped his head around to stare at Scanlan who-- well, Percy really didn’t know him well enough to be sure that he was joking.

“You heard me correctly,” Scanlan said. “A real living, breathing bear. _Ursus arctos_ in the flesh. Teeth, claws, big giant paws and everything. She would not leave him behind, and believe me, I _tried_.” 

Percy opened his mouth and found no words coming out. 

“I had to pay a lot - a _lot_ of money to get that thing on board too. Talk to the captain, so to speak,” Scanlan continued, rubbing his fingers together, most likely to indicate a hefty bribe. “She wouldn’t come without him, she said. Refused absolutely, she said.” 

“You two gentlemen talking about something?” 

Percy whirled around, and came face to face with the girl _and_ her bear. Percy had never fancied himself a biologist and so he did not know how large the creature was relative to others of its kind, but to his eyes it was huge, as tall as a horse at the shoulder but with a lumbering gait that spoke of solid muscle beneath all that fur. 

Vex’ahlia was also a sight to behold, not least because the bear followed placidly beside her. Cleaned up and divested of her prison clothes, she wore form-fitting blue and white travel clothing, a style choice that seemed calculated to catch all eyes. It had certainly worked on him. With her dark hair braided behind her back she cut quite the figure and, well-- Percy privately conceded that Cassandra might have been a bit right as he wrenched his eyes away from ogling her. 

She smiled, amused, and Percy realized he had been caught in staring. He flushed. “Good morning Percy,” she said, nodding her head first at him and then at Scanlan. “Mr. Reynolds.” 

“Miss Vex’ahlia.” Scanlan was already nervously eyeing the bear. 

“I never thanked you for your assistance back at the jail. It was very… entertaining.” Scanlan grinned, and Percy wondered just what methods his business associate had used to spring the half-elves from jail. Vex’ahlia said no more to satisfy Percy’s curiosity. She turned around to face the small crowd on the docks and called out, “Vax! It looks perfectly safe and not at all trap-ish to me!” 

Vex’ahlia’s brother skulked out of the crowd, so well-hidden that Percy jumped at the sight of him. “Oh!” Percy said, and then as he began shaking off the discomfort of being startled said, “It’s good to see you both again.”

Vax raised his eyebrows. “Jumpy, de Rolo?” 

“Just-- excited to get our adventure underway.” Percy smiled tightly at the pair, who looked highly competent and dangerous, if friendly enough. “You have to admit, the bear is somewhat intimidating.” 

“Exactly what I said!” Scanlan said.

“Oh, Trinket’s really just a big sweetheart,” Vex'ahlia said, in the same doting tone rich old ladies used for their favored poodles. “You don’t have anything to worry about, he’s really quite well-behaved.”

The bear, as if sensing this praise, rumbled a little in agreement. 

“Then it’s very nice to meet him,” Percy said diplomatically. “This is already shaping up to be one of the most interesting ventures of my entire life.” 

“I’m sure it will get far more interesting than this,” Vex'ahlia said, the tone of promise in her voice sending shivers right up Percy’s spine. She grinned, a little saucily, at him. “We haven’t even gotten in the air yet.”

“Of course, we’ll all board in a moment. Just,” Percy clasped his hands together behind his back as he worked out what to say next. “Listen-- if this is some sort of a con, or a setup, or--” 

“Or a ruse?” Vex'ahlia looked amused. 

“Exactly.” Percy let out a breath, let his hands fall into a more normal position. “I’ve put a lot of effort and money into finding Whitestone, and if this is all a scam-- you won’t appreciate what I’m likely to do in that case.” 

Vex'ahlia stepped forward, and laid her hand on his arm. It sent another, very different, shiver up his spine. “Percy, darling. It’s not a scam or a con or anything of that sort. You might not like what you find there, but I assure you the place is very real.” 

Percy looked into her eyes - a rich and expressive hazel - and decided based on some gut instinct he didn’t understand that she was telling the truth. He couldn’t have explained it if anyone had asked. If he sorted through things logically, she had every reason to con him. Even still--

“Might not like what I find there?” His voice came out in a hushed whisper, an effect of the tantalizing mystery and Vex’ahlia standing close enough Percy could see her individual eyelashes. They were all very long and very dark.

“Whitestone has ghosts, darling.” 

Percy felt the small frisson of fear, the campfire-story tension of such a pronouncement, seize him for a moment. Then the rationalist took over and he shook his head. “Ghosts don’t exist,” he said. 

“Sure,” Vex'ahlia said, and she smiled as if she were willing to condescend to his beliefs… for the moment. “I’ll see you on the ship?” 

Percy stepped out of the way of Vex'ahlia - and her bear, and her brother - and watched as they ascended onto the ship, once again utterly speechless. How his life had turned out so strangely, he didn’t know, but he knew that he had never in his life been so excited. 

“So,” Scanlan said from beside him, full of laced innuendo. “Not your girlfriend then?”

Percy sighed. “She’s lovely, but no,” he said. “Now we should board, before the boat leaves without us.” 

“It wouldn’t do that,” Scanlan said, indignant. He started up the gangplank anyways, Percy beside him. “I paid Captain Damon a _lot_ of money.” 

“You really weren’t kidding about the bear.” 

“Percy, my friend, I really wish I was.”


End file.
